Three Hands In The Fountain

Grudgingly, Gaius agreed to sit-down at the table and tuck in. Seduced by the unusual experience of a family dinner, something Galla and Lollius had never been known to provide for their children, he finally remembered he had a message to deliver to Helena: `Your brother came to see you yesterday.'

'Quintus? The tall friendly one? Camillus Justinus?' `Probably. He said to tell you he's been, sent away for his health.'

Helena looked, alarmed. `What does that mean. Is he ill?'

Gaius shrugged his thin shoulders under his dirty tunic. `I think it was a kind of joke. I was kipping on your porch, waiting for you to come home again.'

At the thought of the unloved scallywag hanging around our house pathetically, Helena winced. `Did you talk to my brother?'

`He sat down with me on the steps and we had a nice chat. He's not bad. But he was very depressed.'

Tired after the journey, Helena rubbed her eyes and then gazed at my nephew with her chin in both hands. `What made him depressed, Gaius?'

`He was talking to me in private -'Catching Helena's eye, my nephew writhed uncomfortably. But he owned up, looking embarrassed. `Well, love, and all that stuff."

I laughed. `Well there's a lesson for you. That's what happens to young men who foolishly dally with actresses.'

Helena Justina filled a new food bowl for my nephew, looking thoughtful. Then, since she knew how to prevent squabbling, she filled another bowl for me.'

The Games in honour of the late Emperor Augustus begin on the third day in October. Two days later is a mythical date for the opening of the gates to Hades; I was hoping that by then we would have a villain caught and ready to send down there. Immediately before the Games came a black day in the calendar, the traditional bad luck day following the Kalends, the first of the month. We had reasoned that the superstitious would avoid travelling on a black day so they would come to Rome for the festival on the Kalends instead. To be absolutely, sure we were in place in time, we actually set up our watch the day before.

We were observing the city gates. Hoping our theories were correct,, we concentrated on the eastern side. Petro and I took turns on the Tiburtine and Praenestine gates, where we stationed ourselves every evening just as the vehicle ban was lifted and the carts came into Rome; we remained until the traffic dispersed at dawn. Thanks to Julius Frontinus, the Prefect of Vigiles had given us help from his local men; for additional cover they were also on watch at the two gates to the north of the Praetorian Camp and two more further south.

`I hope you're prepared to be the one,' said Petro, `who tells the vigiles they have to look for a ginger-haired midget with a beard and a wonky leg.''

`They'll think it's a big joke.'

`Falco, I've come to the conclusion anything you're involved in is a joke!' he retorted, rather bitterly I thought:

The Porta Tiburtina was where, we expected the killer to drive in, whether he was our gingery suspect Damon, or somebody else. Both the Via Tiburtina and the Via Collatina enter Rome that way. There,' and also at the Porta Praenestina where a road came in from the same; general area of the Campagna, the vigiles were stopping and listing every vehicle.

It caused a stir, to put it mildly. We called it a traffic census, ordered by the Emperor. Each driver was asked where he had come from and to assist with forward planning where he was travelling to in. Rome. Quite a few hated telling us, and some probably lied on principle. When they, were asked the reason for their journey, and how often they came up for festivals, some of the middle and upper-class occupants of carriages said they, would rush straight home to write complaining petitions to Vespasian.: Naturally we fell back on `Sorry, sir; it's orders from the top' and 'Don't blame me, tribune; I'm just doing my job and naturally; that enraged them more… When they screeched off with sparks flying from their wheels; at least they were too busy fuming to stop and consider what our real motive might have been.

The fat-bodied, four-wheeled, bronze-embellished raeda lurched through the Porta Tiburtina on the Kalends. At the time I was on duty there. I had arrived in position as soon as the first vehicles were permitted to enter that night. The grand carriage was drawn by four horses but was being driven at the pace of a funeral bier. Its slow drag had already caused a traffic tail a: mile long. It was easy to spot. Not just because of the irritated yells from the frustrated drivers behind it, but because up on the front was the ginger-haired

small man all of us were looking for…